Poseidon's Daughter

by Diane A. S. Stuckart

  ”Yer faith is quite touching, me darling, but sadly misplaced,” she heard O'Neill softly say above the sound of the rising wind. “And with the storm moving in, I fear I cannot wait any longer.”

  She swung back again to face him, dread forming a fist-sized lump in her throat as her gaze traveled from the pirate's chill blue gaze to the thick hilt of the knife that hung from his belt. Reflexively, her fingers sought the tiny crescent cut on her cheek, and she shivered.

  Dear Lord, he means to kill me, after all

  Her first panicked instinct was to flee. With an effort, she suppressed that reaction. Dressed as she was in a ridiculously tight gown, she would take no more than a step before he would be upon her. Her sole recourse was to stall him, either until he reconsidered his plan of action or else Malcolm appeared.

  But Malcolm was not coming...that, she now knew. The knowledge sliced through her heart with a far deeper pain than even O'Neill's knife was capable of inflicting. Until a moment ago, she had felt certain that he would not betray her. But now, it seemed she had been proved wrong, and she and her father would suffer for it.

  “If it's just riches you want,” she frantically tried, “then perhaps you and I can make a bargain.”

  She paused to fumble with the neckline of her gown, plucking forth her gold coin pendant to show him. “Surely you must know that I—and my father, before me—have been searching these waters for the lost city of Atlantis,” she went on in a rush. “My father found this coin not long ago, and I suspect there are far many more treasures still to be discovered. I could offer you half... no, two-thirds of whatever I bring up.”

  ”Ye could be offering me the whole lot, me darling, and I'd not be interested,” he coolly cut her short. “I know there's no treasure to be found, not here. Ye see, yer father got that coin from me.”

  “From you?”

  Her knees wavered like sea foam, and it was with an effort that she held her ground. Once more, she recalled Malcolm's words of the day before. Nothing more than a hoax, he had said, though she had refused then to believe him. But now, O'Neill claimed to be part of that very deception, and surely he had no reason to lie.

  So all of this has been for naught, she wearily realized. All of this.

  With unsteady hands, she raked aside the locks of blond hair that the wind had wrapped around her face and glanced towards the water. The waves had risen to a pitch as frantic as her thoughts, assaulting the shoreline with even greater urgency than a few minutes before. If O'Neill intended to row back to his ship before the storm hit, he would have to leave now, before the burgeoning swell made that an impossibility.

  Which meant that her own time had run out, as well.

  “Sorry I'm late,” called a familiar voice from the tangle of mangroves behind her. “It's a bloody long walk to here from the guest house.”

  Just as realization pierced her fear, O'Neill seized her by the arm and swung her about to face Malcolm. This time, the Irishman's blade was at her throat, but she hardly noticed as a single cry echoed in her mind.

  He came, after all!

  If Malcolm noticed her relief, he gave no sign. Indeed, he spared her but a look before turning his attention to O'Neill. “I trust you hadn't given up on me...not after I swore I would be here.”

  “'Tis more than giving up. Another minute, and yer Miss Davenport would have been past saving,” the pirate clipped out, an edge of barely checked anger adding heat to his usually cool tones.

  Malcolm merely shrugged. “But I am here now. And as it appears that Captain Rolle's gale is also headed in on schedule, why don't we get on with business before we're drenched to the skin. If you'll just allow Miss Davenport to go free—”

  “First, ye'll take off yer coat and turn around,” the other man cut him short. “Even knowing yer too fine a gent to think of using a pistol, I'd not put it past you to be carrying one, anyway.”

  “Your lack of trust wounds me,” Malcolm replied, though he did as asked and slid off his jacket. Tossing that garment aside, he turned to show that no weapon was concealed in the rear waistband of his trousers.

  “Yer either smarter than I gave ye credit for, or yer a bleedin' fool—I'm not sure which,” the Irishman coolly told him. “Now, let's see the emerald, and be quick about it.”

  “As you wish.”

  So saying, Malcolm reached into his trouser pocket and withdrew a black velvet pouch. It was the same cloth bag that Halia recalled seeing hanging from a gold cord around his neck the day she had confronted him in his bedchamber. Deliberately, he tugged at the knot holding it; then, with a flourish, he spilled the gem into his outstretched palm.

  It glowed with the same deep green as a sunny Bimini sea and was the size and shape of a sandpiper's egg. Despite herself, Halia could not hold back a gasp. Never had she seen an emerald that large or that brilliant a color. No wonder that each man coveted it with a single-minded passion.

  O'Neill nodded in satisfaction and lowered his knife.

  “'Tis Poseidon's Tear,” he conceded. “Now, toss it over to me, and I'll let yer girl go.”

  Malcolm did not immediately answer. Instead, he paused to whip his handkerchief from his pocket and swipe at his brow. Then, tucking away the white cloth square, he returned the gem to its pouch.

  “I rather think I'd prefer you to release her first, and then I'll give you the emerald. After all, how am I to know that I can trust you?”

  His question was punctuated by a sudden gust of wind and a sprinkling of raindrops, as if Poseidon himself were indeed weeping over them.

  If O'Neill noticed that the rain had begun, he gave no sign but merely replied, “'Tis a bloody risk ye'll have to take, or have ye no faith in yer own brother?”

  “I trust you as much as you trust me, Seamus,” was the bland reply. “Unfortunately, time appears to be at a premium here, so I must act contrary to my instincts.”

  With those words, Malcolm tied the gold cord more tightly about its pouch and sent the tiny bundle flying. It spun in a graceful arch and landed directly at Halia's feet.

  “Pick it up,” the pirate softly ordered as he loosed her. His tone admonished her not to attempt any tricks.

  Awkwardly, given her tight gown, she bent and scooped the velvet-wrapped package from the sand. Though her first impulse was to fling the cursed rock far into the waves, she heeded his unspoken warning and dropped the emerald into O'Neill's waiting palm.

  His fingers closed over it, and he gave a satisfied smile. “Sure, and 'tis a pleasure doing business with you, brother. Now, take yer Miss Davenport and be off with ye.”

  “But what about my father?” Halia addressed him in a rush. “Will you let him go, as well?”

  Both men turned to stare, as if she'd taken a role in this drama that was not rightfully hers. Then O'Neill shook his head.

  “Arvin and I, we have a few matters left to settle,” he said with grim finality. Tucking the tiny packet into his waistcoat pocket, he turned into the wind and started toward his dinghy.

  A frantic plea rose in her throat as she watched him shove the tiny craft back out into the waves. What had transpired between her father and the other man, she could not guess; still, she could not just walk away, knowing that her father remained the Irishman's captive.

  But even as she took the first impulsive step in the same direction, a hand clamped over her bare arm.

  “Now's not the time to worry about him, luv,” Malcolm said, the sound of his voice almost drowned out now by the wind and waves. “The storm is almost on us. We have to get to shelter, and soon.”

  “But, no one has answered me. What about my father?”

  “Later.”

  He tugged her back around to face him, and she saw grim purpose in his expression. Already, the light mist had dampened his dark hair and begun to plaster his white shirt to his torso. In another few minutes, the rain would begin in earnest.

  She spared a final glance over her shoulder at O'Neill's dinghy as it was t
ossed like a child's toy atop the foaming waves. The tide was rising, and the usually tranquil green sea was now a churning frenzy of gray water. The pirate would be lucky to make his way back to his ship without capsizing, though she could spare little sympathy for the pirate. And as for her father, there was nothing that she could do to help him for now.

  “You are right,” she conceded with a small sigh of despair, the words bitter upon her tongue. “Maybe when the storm has passed—”

  “If we don't get moving now,” Malcolm bluntly cut her short, “in another minute, we'll have seawater up to our arses and be in need of help, ourselves.”

  He paused, his gaze momentarily fixed on her nicked cheek as an odd stillness settled over his features. Then, his tone diffident, he asked, “Are you...that is, did that bloody brigand hurt you, at all?”

  Halia returned him a puzzled look. Why, Malcolm had been right there when, to prove his point, O'Neill had drawn blood. Then comprehension washed over her, so that she felt herself blush scarlet.

  “If you want to know if he forced himself upon me,” she stiffly replied, “then the answer is no. While I can hardly say that he lavished every courtesy on me, he did behave with the utmost propriety.”

  His shielded expression relaxed. “I'm glad to hear it. It would be a bloody nuisance to have to kill my own brother.”

  She stared back at him, uncertain just how to take that last statement. But even as she told herself that it meant he must care about her, if only a little, he slanted her a wry look. “So tell me, luv, are you wearing anything under that charming purple gown of yours?”

  “Am I wearing anything?” she sputtered. “Of course, I... that is, what business is it of—”

  She broke off with an outraged shriek as he reached both arms around her and unceremoniously rent the back seam of her dress, sending buttons flying.

  “Are you mad?” she gasped out and grabbed at her bodice, which had slipped halfway off her shoulders to expose her camisole. “If this is your idea of a joke—”

  “I'm serious as a bloody constable,” he shouted back over the rising wind. “With all those frills and furbelows dragging behind you, you'd be drowned long before you could make your way to higher ground... if you did manage the climb. And since there's no bloody way I'm going to carry you all the way back to Alice Town, I suggest you take off the dress.”

  Swiftly, she conceded the logic of his argument. Better to be alive if mortified than quite proper but drowned, she decided and promptly began shedding the ruined gown. A moment later, she stood there in nothing but her borrowed silk camisole and lace-trimmed pantalets.

  To her relief, he neither leered nor laughed but merely snatched up his discarded jacket and tossed it in her direction. “Let's try for the guest house,” he urged as she gratefully pulled on the large coat and hugged it to her. “With any luck, the worst of the rain will hold off a bit longer.”

  Barely had the words left his mouth than, just to prove him wrong, the pewter sky above erupted in a chilly downpour.

  “Bloody hell!” he choked out and, grabbing her hand, headed for the rise and the trees beyond.

  Blindly, Halia stumbled after him. With her free hand, she raked at her blond hair that the onslaught had plastered to her face, concentrating as she did so on keeping her footing. Shards of broken conch shells and splinters of driftwood sliced at her bare soles, but fear dulled the pain. A cut foot was of little account compared to the havoc a gale could wreak.

  She'd heard countless tales of seawaters that could rise with astounding speed to all but submerge an island. Just as frightening was the wind that, like a runaway locomotive, would roar over the: land to flatten every tree and shack in its path.

  What chance would the two of them have out in the open, pitted against nature's fury?

  For the moment, however, the wind was almost a blessing, literally pressing them onward into the tangle of mangroves beyond. Once there, they found some small shelter from the blinding rain, though by now the ground beneath their feet was little more than an immense puddle.

  “Come on,” Malcolm urged, his grip tightening on her as he pulled her steadily onward. “We have to keep moving.”

  Now she was grateful for his insistence that she rid herself of her borrowed gown, for the footing here was even more treacherous than the sand and rock. More than once, she went sprawling over an exposed tree root. Each time, Malcolm dragged her upright again. How he knew where to lead her, she could not guess. She only prayed they were moving inland, and were not circling back toward the shore.

  Even as that unwelcome possibility flitted through her mind, she lost her footing yet again and slipped down a rocky grade, dragging Malcolm after her.

  By some miracle, she remained on her feet until she reached the bottom of that slope. There, an upright slab of limestone put a painful and unceremonious halt to her descent. She wound up in a sitting position, her back against that rectangular outcropping. An instant later, Malcolm, with an equal lack of grace, landed lengthwise atop her like a sprawling supplicant, his face buried in her lap.

  Halia gave a strangled cry and stared down in horror at the back of his head. Dear Lord, what if someone saw them lying together, no matter how unintentionally, in such an intimate pose?

  She promptly realized the irony of entertaining such a concern in the midst of more immediate dangers. But even as she chided herself for her folly, she realized that he had not moved since their tumble.

  Hesitantly, she prodded his ribs with one finger in attempt to rouse him. When that proved ineffective, she shook him by the shoulders, but to no avail.

  Frantic now, she caught his face with her palms and lifted his head, searching his features for some sign of life. His eyes were closed, his skin an unhealthy gray hue...but surely that was a groan now issuing from his slack lips.

  “Bloody…hell,” she heard him wheeze out a moment later. To her relief, he half-raised himself from her lap to dash leaves and rainwater from his face with the back of one hand. “Knocked the bloody breath...from me.”

  Not thinking what she was doing, she raised a hand to tenderly brush back the dark hair plastered to his brow. Then his gaze met hers, and she felt a blush heat her face. What was she thinking, to use such a loving gesture on him, when they were anything but intimates.

  A wry grin spread across his face as he regained control of his breathing. “Mind, I'm not complaining about the outcome,” he went on as he pulled himself into a sitting position beside her, rain spilling over his brow. “The only thing is—”

  He broke off with a choked curse, his eyes widening in dismay. Even as Halia feared that the fall had truly addled his wits, he gasped out, “The only thing is, we're sitting in a bloody graveyard!”

  She spared a look at the limestone slab against which she was so heedlessly leaning. It was, indeed, a headstone, which meant they must have stumbled into the public burial ground that she knew lay near the island's southern tip. All around them, crude markers—some of carved and painted wood, others of rock—indicated the final resting places of numerous deceased Biminians.

  She glanced back at Malcolm, who now wore a look of distinct apprehension at finding himself in such a place. For her own part, a sudden uneasiness gripped her, but not because of any misplaced fear of the dead. Rather, she was recalling how she'd overheard one of the Golden Wolf’s crew speaking of another gale, years earlier, that had vented its fury on the tiny island. That time, the rising waters literally had washed several corpses from their graves in this very cemetery.

  “We have to move higher,” she declared and scrambled to her feet. “We're still too close to the shoreline.”

  “I'm with you, luv.”

  So saying, he rose and caught her hand again. They wended their way through the maze of trees and irregularly spaced grave markers until they reached its end. The trees gave way to a clearing where, by dint of squinting, she could make out several any houses—the nominal outskirts of Alice Town.
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  Away from the shelter of the trees, the rain once again pelted them with a blinding fury. The wind, which for a few minutes seemed to have died, now resumed blowing with even greater intensity. It brought with it a veritable garden of leaves, broken vines, and small branches. Leafy debris plastered itself to Halia's jacket while her soggy curtain of blond hair now painfully whipped about her face.

  Doggedly, she clutched at his hand as they stumbled their way up an unpaved little avenue that resembled a creek bed. Water flowed unchecked down it, washing about their ankles and carving ruts in the sandy soil. Squinting through the downpour, Halia noted that the few cottages lining the trail all had their hurricane shutters pulled tight against the onslaught. As for their inhabitants, they were either snug inside or else had already moved to higher ground.

  “How much farther?” she gasped out, stumbling against Malcolm when she lost her footing inside a water-filled rut.

  He paused to steady her, shielding his eyes with one forearm as he glanced about them. “Let's try for Captain Rolle's place,” he called back to her, the words just audible over the roar of the wind. “It can't be more than another— bloody hell!”

  With that shouted curse, he grabbed her to his chest and swung about. An instant later, a broken tree limb as big around as a man's arm and twice the length pelted past the spot where they'd just been standing. A second, much larger branch followed, the butt end of it grazing his shoulder.

  “That does it!” he exclaimed and grabbed her by the hand again. “We're going to find shelter now, before a bloody tree does us both in!”

  So saying, he dragged her in the direction of a white, thatched house half the size of the captain's modest cottage. Reaching its shuttered entry, he did not bother to knock. Rather, he flung open the wooden doors and half-tossed Halia inside before pulling the twin shutters closed again after them.

  ~ Chapter 21 ~

  Halia shoved her dripping hair from her eyes and swiftly glanced about the single-room cottage. No lantern shone within, while the shutters and storm-darkened sky without only added to the dimness. Still, she could see past the shadows well enough to tell that no one was home—not that it mattered. Island hospitality dictated that Malcolm and she were welcome to the refuge they had found.